


Exposed Like a Nerve

by Besin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fighting Possession, Libraries, M/M, Possessed Stiles, Scenting, Stiles is a Badass?, Student Stiles, Teacher Derek, Teacher Student Realationships, werewolf Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besin/pseuds/Besin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a boy in seat 36 and he was staring.</p>
<p>Derek didn’t know why this bugged him, seeing as he was a teacher. It was literally in his job description to be stared at. But this boy, this Genim Stilinski kid, had this way of raking his eyes over Derek’s form that made him feel exposed. Almost like he was on trial. Almost like he was being checked out, except there wasn’t an ounce of sexualization in the boy’s stare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exposed

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this tumblr photoset](http://bilesandthesourwolf.tumblr.com/post/75867976058/derek-hale-teaches-at-the-prestigious-all-boys) and AU setting. Made it AR instead because reasons.

Disclaimer: Besieged Infection does not own the rights to Teen Wolf. No money is being made from the production or distribution of this fanfiction.

…

There was a boy in seat 36 and he was staring.

Derek didn’t know why this bugged him, seeing as he was a teacher. It was literally in his job description to be stared at. But this boy, this Genim Stilinski kid, had this way of raking his eyes over Derek’s form that made him feel exposed. Almost like he was on trial. Almost like he was being checked out, except there wasn’t an ounce of sexualization in the boy’s stare.

Halfway through homeroom the assistant principal had walked in with Genim and introduced him as a transfer student; something almost unheard of at the school. The entrance exam was hard enough; forget the transfer test. On that tidbit alone Derek could assume this kid was either ridiculously smart or had incredibly wealthy parents. Usually the man would just jump to ‘parents,’ but a few casual glances out of the corner of his eye seemed to do nothing more than prove that theory wrong. Over and over and over again. If the ratty, ill-fitting jeans and well-loved converse and flannel were anything to go by, the Stilinski kid had a surprisingly average family. (Apparently there were no more spare uniforms in his size at the moment.)

A genius, then. Derek hated geniuses. They usually approached him after class with a barrage of questions, craving the attention and validation of their intelligence. Usually Derek wouldn’t mind, but there were only so many bi-curious schoolboys with above-average intelligence a guy could handle. And really, it shouldn’t have surprised Derek so much when Genim (strange name) approached him after class, pushing his glasses further up on his nose with one finger and grinning like an idiot.

“So, teach, got any work from the beginning of the semester I should take a look at?”

He didn’t bother to even hesitate. “No.”

Genim laughed. “Really? You’re going for the grumpy old man stereotype? Jesus, dude, you have so much going for you; I expected better.”

“If that’s all you have to say I’d like to point you in the general direction of your first period class, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Call me Stiles,” the boy told him, upper lip peeling upward to put a toothy grin on display. Pushing his glasses further up on his nose, only to have them fall back down to the bridge, he waved a small goodbye with his pinky and left. “Have a good one,” he’d drawled on his way out, two fingers in the air and a hop in his step.

It occurred to Derek that he was arrogant, too.

He hated when they were arrogant.

…

The coffee the next morning had taste funny, and while Derek didn’t believe in omens he did believe in bad days. So when Stiles approached him after class and knocked over the pile of ungraded tests on Derek’s desk he didn’t bother to yell or tell the boy off. He’d simply uttered, “Get out,” and the boy was out the door.

…

Stiles wasn’t so much ‘arrogant’ as ‘socially stunted.’ Derek would learn this after being bombarded by a long string of questions one day after class. Stupid questions. Weird questions. Incredibly invasive questions. Derek, for the sake of his sanity, stopped replying after the first ten minutes. Not much later he ended up regretting this decision when Stiles turned the whole thing into a long and spirited monologue about the state of the economy. A monologue.

What’s worse, something was just off about Stiles that day. And it wasn’t until the kid bid him goodbye that Derek called out to him and demanded he stand at attention. The guy even did a mock salute. “What can I help you with, sir?” he asked, all false bravado and masked nervousness.

Derek could smell it from several feet away -- the fear.

He chose to ignore it. Leaning in closer, he peered at the corner of the boy’s mouth and frowned. That’s what he first smelled it; a scent beneath all the others. Not shampoo or body wash or -- god forbid -- cologne, but an honest to goodness scent. Derek almost froze completely at how utterly fantastic Stiles smelled. But he recovered -- he was a teacher goddammit -- and simply announced, “You have lipstick on you.”

Stiles’ eyes widened momentarily in a show of shock as his hand shot up to wipe at his lips. “Oh my god,” he gaped. “It, uh, it must have been my girlfriend. She-”

Derek’s eyebrows rose curiously as Stiles began to detail his perfect, beautiful, fictional girlfriend. Because he was lying. He was lying through his ass. His heartbeat had gone off the charts, but Derek didn’t need supernatural hearing to figure out Stiles was full of shit.

“Look, I don’t care where you got it, okay?” he insisted after hearing a bit too much rambling. “But this is an all boys school, as I’m sure you’re aware, and other people might get the wrong idea. So be careful, okay?”

The boy had stared up at him for a long time after that, eyes wide and mouth slack. Then, completely serious, he mumbled, “Wow, you’re actually a teacher.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Derek snapped.

Stiles shrugged. “You don’t meet many old-school teachers these days. You know; the ones that give valid advice.”

Said teacher frowned. “Is that a compliment?”

“Uh, yeah? A kind of obvious one.” The boy’s finger trailed up to play with the top button of his uniform blazer. Then he grinned big and laughed.

It was like nothing Derek had ever heard. It was familiar. It was like home. But it wasn’t.

Pushing his glasses back into place, the boy hit his lip and for a moment looked incredibly awkward. “So, uh, I should go.” He took a few steps back -- and when did they get so close? -- and gave one of his two-fingered waves before leaving.

…

Stiles was a joy in class.

Derek, in a move similar to self-preservation, vowed firmly to never tell him this.

…

At first Derek thought nothing of the warning the school board had issued about a strange figure seen wandering around campus. But when three students went missing he got worried. It was that day -- the day after the disappearances were announced, that Stiles showed up in Derek’s office with a grin and a box of doughnuts. “Okay, so here’s the deal,” the boy began confidently. “You eat the doughnuts and I don’t get detention tomorrow.”

“Give me the doughnuts now and I won’t give you detention for coming into my office uninvited after curfew,” Derek snapped back.

Stiles paused. “Wow, I really walked into that one.”

“If you want to bribe someone make sure you have some leverage first.”

The boy nodded. “Yeah, yeah, that’s actually some pretty solid advice.” He glanced down at the small box in his hands, shrugged, tucked it under his arm, and waved goodbye with two fingers. “Well, I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

As Stiles strode out of his office with all the grace of an upside-down tortoise, Derek felt the urge to just let him leave. But not three inches from his right hand was the printed memo the principal had personally handed out to all the staff members that morning that insisted that all students were to travel in pairs. As much as it would help the boy concentrate, Stiles couldn’t magically split into two people. So after throwing a purple sweater on over his dress shirt and tie, Derek locked up his office and chased after his student with an expression just short of indignation.

The boy blinked. “Did I forget something?”

“The entire campus is on alert.”

Stiles grinned weakly. “Oh, right; the whole ‘escort’ thing. Could we, like, not?”

“Not if I want to keep my job,” Derek informed him darkly, drawing up beside him.

“Oh, come on, we both know this is definitely not your calling. You were never meant to be a teacher.”

“Excuse me?”

Stiles flinched. “Really should have saved that line for when we got to the dorms.”

“Yeah, you really should have,” Derek snapped. “But please -- enlighten me.”

Stiles cowered under his gaze, then started down the hall at a brisk pace. “It as a joke about your face.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Derek fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Oh my god, dude, unless you’ve never seen your reflection I don’t think I have to validate my opinion. Ego stroking is never supposed to be at its finest, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“Can’t even -- god, are you physically incapable of humoring people?” He groaned. “You’re not my friend, then. You’re the grumpy teacher walking me back to my room to make sure I don’t get slaughtered of kidnapped or, like, possessed. Although there’s a good chance that won’t happen. New York isn’t exactly a beacon for the supernatural.”

Derek fought back a groan of his own. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Nope. Scott says I have diarrhea of the mouth.” He stopped talking for a blissful moment to jog ahead and open the school’s front doors, only to find they were locked. “Well, shit. Hey, we should find a janitor. Do you know where any would be?”

Ignoring the boy entirely, Derek took a sharp turn away from the front doors and stepped into the main office. He bent over the counter, reaching across the desk to grab at the secretary’s pen mug and grabbing the key taped to the underside.

“Ooh -- that’s nifty. Although shouldn’t you be afraid I’ll use this who key location information thing to, like, break into the school and destroy shit or something?” Stiles asked, completely serious.

“We’ll know it was you,” the teacher deadpanned, motioning for the boy to step away from the door. Unlocking it swiftly, he toed off his shoe and jammed it in the opening before jogging back to return the key.

Stiles watched carefully as his teacher made his way back to the front. “You know, you’re incredibly in control of yourself for a werewolf. You’d think with the full moon you’d be all over this place, like Scott or Isaac. Or Peter. Although, to be fair, I don’t think he really tries.”

Derek went still, body freezing mid-stretch to retrieve his shoe.

“I mean, seriously; you should give them some pointers or something. Especially Scott. He’s almost killed me, like, three times.”

“What are you talking about?” Derek demanded, shoe firmly in hand. He barely remembered to keep one hand on the door to keep it open as he turned to address the boy who apparently knew too much.

“Oh come on -- Derek, right? That’s your name? Derek Hale, Laura’s little brother? Peter’s nephew? The guy who went missing six years ago and, to all appearances, went Omega? Any of this a-ringin’ a bell?” He paused, and for an entire second there was silence. “Oh my god, I have the wrong guy! I have the wrong guy don’t I?! Oh my god.”

“Let’s…” Clearing his throat, Derek pushed the door open wider and motioned for Stiles to go through. “You don’t, but let’s talk about this in the morning, okay?”

The boy was quiet for all of ten seconds as he nodded enthusiastically, head bobbing back and forth almost like a chicken. His glasses threatened to fly off with the motion. Pushing them back up, he mumbled a quick, “Yeah, great, totally. We’ll just get me home and -- yeah. That.” He weaved between Derek and the door, passing through the narrow opening with hunched shoulders and a look of minor concentration.

Derek would never admit to the deep breath he took as Stiles passed, finally recognizing the underlying scent for was it was.

Pack.

…

“You were kidding about detention,” Derek noted the first thing after school the next day. “You planned on not wearing your uniform.”

“It’s being patched as we speak,” Stiles replied halfheartedly. “I didn’t exactly want to run around in slacks without an ass.”

“And how, exactly, did you manage to rip your school pants?”

The boy’s lips pinched together quickly, protruding rudely. He looked like a duck. Between his lips his teeth greeted the world cutely. They were incredibly white for a teenage boy. Not that Derek was looking. “You mean, you don’t know?” he gaped, drawing his teacher out of a kind of trance. “I mean, Laura said you didn’t want anything to do with the supernatural, but to think you’re entirely removed-”

“What are you talking about?” Derek finally snapped. His hands were suddenly restless, smoothing over the top sheet of a stack of tests, then running through his hair. He was uneasy; probably from Stiles’ scent. It was so strange to be near someone who smelled like pack again. It made him want to move; to run to find some woods and change.

“I’m talking about the Hell Hounds.”

The werewolf grimaced. “In New York?”

“Yeah. I mean, mysterious deaths, three guys missing -- I’ve been tracking this case since I was in Beacon Hills. That’s why I came to New York in the first place. Kinda.”

“And here I thought it was because you were offered a full scholarship,” Derek deadpanned. He’d read Stiles’ file the previous night, and was surprised to find that little tidbit.

“That, too, but it was mostly because of the Hell Hounds.”

Rising to his feet, the teacher turned to the black board and began wiping it clean for the next day. “So where do you fit into all of this?” he asked quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re human, right? How did you get mixed up with the supernatural?”

Stiles nodded. “Oh, right. That. Well, at first it was because my friend Scott was bitten. But then I… well…” He trailed off, offering a smug grin. “Look and see for yourself.”

Derek turned.

And waited.

And waited.

And was on the receiving end of laughter.

It took Derek a moment to realize what Stiles had meant -- that he should take a look at him with turned eyes. Off the top of his head he couldn’t remember that last time he’d even partially changed. Not even a little bit. So it was strange to close his eyes, bring the wolf to the surface just enough for his eyes to change, and look up at the world. Everything was bright and raw and it almost hurt. But among the desks and the particles in the air was Stiles, surrounded by a pitch-like aura that swirled around him like a swarm of bees, spilling from his skin like smoke.

“You’re possessed,” he heard himself say, not quite sure what to think.

Stiles laughed. “Sort of? After a few years you learn to control it. Side effects vary from person to person. I just got lucky. My side effect, as far as we know, is bad luck with relationships.”

“I highly doubt it’s that bad,” Derek drawled, half joking, much to his own surprise. This boy -- this tall, gangly boy who smiled crooked and had an entire galaxy of moles it seemed -- was suddenly so serious it almost hurt to look at him. The teacher had expected him to reply with a joke. Maybe a half-assed attempt at an intelligent quip. Maybe a giggle. But the boy’s response was an empty silence that filled the room with something so thick it was hard to breathe. Derek could smell it -- the sorrow rolling off the boy in large, turbulent waves that crashed through the room and then just stopped.

“Well, I should probably start looking for a way to open the gates of Hell or something. Those Hell Hounds won’t banish themselves.”

“You-”

“Can we pretend that you didn’t just smell that?” Because I’m not gonna lie -- that would be great. Fantastic, really.”

Derek didn’t know what to say to that.

…

Glancing at Stiles as he came through the door on Friday a week later, Derek grimaced. “Mr. Stilinski, this is the third time this week you’ve broken the dress code.”

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to give me detention again, huh, Mr. Hale?”

…

Detention was a cliche Derek personally didn’t understand. Movies and novels made it out to be a great adventure, but really it was just Stiles staring at him for an hour in complete and utter, incredibly unnerving silence with twenty other kids.

Neither of them bothered to address the fact that Stiles stayed later than everyone else. He was the new kid. No one really cared that he wore jeans to school and knew the detention room lineup like the back of his hand. No one cared that he called Derek “Sourwolf,” either. He was the kid genius from California, so no one actually cared if he spent most of his time with a teacher from his neck of the woods. It just became a thing. If you needed Stilinski go to room 104.

Derek didn’t want to admit it, but he kind of liked this. Years as an Omega had put a strain on his power; on his abilities. Not that he would tell anyone. Not that he had anyone to tell. And that was the point, wasn’t it? Derek was an Omega who existed within society. Quietly. Invisibly. And then Stiles pops up, smelling like pack, and Derek wakes up in Central Park the night after a full moon in nothing but his under armor. (Thankfully people in New York were rather used to drug trips and weirdos and thus thought nothing of a man in skin-tight shorts on the subway at five in the morning.)

At least he hadn’t killed anyone. That was always a plus.

…

“So what’s the deal with the Hell Hounds?” Derek asked two weeks after Stiles mentioned his ‘bad luck.’

They boy looked up from his homework, clearly surprised. It was nearly forty minutes after Detention had come to an end, not that he had been signed up anyway. Derek hadn’t questioned it. Hadn’t questioned anything, really. And maybe that’s why Stiles was so surprised; because other than to dole out detentions, and the subsequent snarky comment, they hadn’t spoken in weeks.

“I -- uh -- I trapped them,” he volunteered quietly. “Mountain ash, in the sewers, a week and a half ago. My clothes didn’t stop smelling for days. That’s why I couldn’t wear my uniform to school.”

“Mountain ash? Do you work with hunters or something?” His tone was hostile.

Stiles didn’t seem to care. “Hunters, werewolves, emissaries, banshees -- you name it, it’s sentient, I’ve worked with it.”

“Ghosts?”

The boy snorted. “Haha, right. Ghosts don’t exist.”

“Just checking,” Derek scoffed. It was almost a laugh. Almost a chuckle, really. If it had lasted a fraction of a second longer, it would have been. “Why are you in New York? Your life was in California, and another hunter could have easily taken care of this. Someone closer.”

The boy laughed, then graced Derek with the most self-deprecating, hopeless grin he’d ever witnessed. “Why did I leave? Do you really need to ask that?”

No. No, he really didn’t. “Why New York, then?”

Stiles made a motion with his hand toward the window. “Hell Hounds. Duh. I struck a deal with the Argents-”

Derek’s hackles rose. “Why are you consorting with the Argents?”

“Dude, down boy. Take a fuckin’ chill pill. Laura ripped out Kate’s throat years ago, got it? Score settled. Anyway…” He paused. “You okay?”

The man had collapsed into his chair, suddenly finding himself weak in the knees. He settled his head into his hands, breathing deep. Kate was dead? Really? It sounded too good to be true.

“Hey!” Stiles called, settling a hand on Derek’s shoulder and giving him a solid shake. “You alright in there?”

Without paying much attention to what he was doing, Derek grabbed Stiles by his tie and brought him close they way he’d done with Laura when they were younger. Burying his face in the boy’s clavicle, he breathed deep, inhaling the faded but wonderful scent of pack, pack, pack that clung to Stiles like a dying wish. After a few seconds he pulled away, muttering an apology as he stood from the chair.

“It’s a scent thing, right?” Stiles said more than asked, following behind the werewolf like a shadow. “Laura and Isaac did that a lot, too.”

Derek nodded weakly. She would do that a lot with a new pack. She did that a lot with him. It then occurred to him that all this time Stiles could have been a spy. He could have been sent by the Argents, but that was no longer possible. Laura did that when she felt safe. There was no way Stiles would know that if he weren’t her friend.

The boy grinned, and it was big and friendly and too much for the older man to take at the moment. Almost as if on cue the smile dropped, and he glanced over at the mostly closed classroom door. “Stay here, okay?”

The teacher watched with something that was not quite confusion, not quite amusement, as Stiles raced over to the door. He checked the hallway before closing it quietly. Then the boy was unbuttoning his shirt, grinning like an idiot.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Derek drawled, eyebrows drawing together in a frown.

“Letting you get your fill of pack,” the boy replied. Finishing with the top two buttons, he loosened his tie and relaxed his blazer until it fell to the floor. The dress shirt and tie were pulled over his head, revealing a long-sleeved maroon shirt. He kicked them to the wall beside the door. Before Derek could protest any further, the boy stepped forward, placed a hand on the back of the werewolf’s head, and guided his face into his neck.

Derek didn’t fight it. Maneuvering them to the wall so anyone who glanced in the door’s window wouldn’t see them, the man buried his nose in Stiles’ neck and sucked in the scent like he was trying not to drown. There was pack, so much pack, and clean skin and shampoo and just a hint of amusement. Derek drank it in for as long as he could before his scent started to overwhelm and mix with it. But then there was a new scent -- a scent he was all too used to and yet so unacquainted.

Stiles’ lust hit him like a brick to the face, made all that much worse by the boy’s belated warning. “Try not to breathe too hard; my neck’s sensitive.”

Pulling away, Derek nodded. “We should do this again some time,” he found himself suggesting. “Soon.” It was stupid. Really stupid. The smell of pack was all but gone after the first five minutes of contact, and yet he’d suggested it anyway.

Stiles, completely unaware, smiled weakly and said, “Okay,” and Derek knew without a doubt that by the end of the year he’d either lose his sanity or his job.

 


	2. Like

Stiles' dorm smelled like splooge. And really, what else could it possibly smell like? The school had packed 600 boys into one apartment complex and called it “student housing.” Upscale New York Private School or not; the place was packed with pubescent males who were still discovering the idea of sexuality.

Not for the first time, Stiles wished he’d gone with the Incubus outbreak in Portland. But no -- the Hell Hounds had spoken to him on a nerdy level that he knew was eventually going to ruin his life. And hey -- hadn’t it already? At least New York had one thing going for it.

Obviously, that thing was Derek Hale.

Stiles didn’t know why he hadn’t told anyone back home about his little discovery in the big apple; that the missing piece of their pack was his homeroom teacher. (He still had to figure out what Derek actually taught. It looked like math, but it could easily be physics. Stiles had yet to take a closer look at the many papers the guy was permanently bent over.) For some reason he wanted to keep Derek to himself. But -- no, that couldn’t be it. That would be silly. More likely than not, it probably had something to do with his insistence to remain separate from the whole supernatural thing. And as much as Stiles missed the excitement of the scene he did not miss the whole “almost dying every Monday at 8PM, Pacific Time Zone.” He’d like to die in his sleep, thanks, when he would be completely unaware of the situation. Preferably around the age of sixty-three.

The possession thing had been what crossed the line for him. After getting it under control he’d pulled some strings and got a scholarship to a school in New York. And that was that, realy. And his apartment smelled like four-year-old splooge.

Lovely.

 

**…**

So Derek is kinda awesome. Or, at least, that’s what Stiles would say if the guy didn’t secretly rendezvous with him every other day after class -- or detention -- to smell his clavicle. It was too cute to be cool. Scenting was the wolf equivalent of cuddling, and Stiles was very much aware of this. Thus Derek was adorable. Dangerous -- what with the claws and the teeth and the superhuman strength that could snap Stiles like a malnourished and particularly dry twig -- but adorable.

For obvious reasons this observations was never voiced. Mainly because Derek never made any off comments when Stiles popped a boner during their sessions. (He was a teenage boy. It happens.) Respect breeds respect after all. And thus no shit was given outwardly. Besides, Stiles liked the guy at the end of the day. Supernatural or not, Derek was cool (adorable.)

 

**…**

Stiles was doing pretty great for a while. His grades were good, he was keeping up with Scott and Laura over Skype, and generally every day was a good day. No strange deaths, no panic attacks, and not a single attempt on his life. In fact, if he weren’t in seven AP courses at an incredibly prestigious private school he’d probably be bored out of his mind.

Then Christ Argent called.

“You’re the closest guy we have,” he’d told Stiles over and over. “We have to have this settled now.”

“Not your guy, Mr. Argent. And in case you forget, I’m out until the end of the school year. You promised. Remember? This is my normal-time.”

“These reports are serious. If this guy gets out of hand there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Not shooting a werewolf, dude. Just get someone to train him, okay? Wouldn’t it be better to have a productive member of society rather than a corpse on the street?” Without giving the man a chance to reply Stiles slammed his laptop shut and returned to his homework.

 

**…**

Derek loved having Stiles in class. Which was strange because it was homeroom. And seriously -- what do you do in homeroom? But every times Stiles would raise his hand Derek would get this half annoyed, half relieved twitch on the left side of his mouth and that was it. The twitch wasn’t for anyone else. Just Stiles. There was a chance Derek didn’t even know he was doing it, and that thought kept Stiles up at night. He didn’t even know why.

 

**…**

Scenting was a thing.

Stiles and Derek had blown right by the stage of scenting maybe being a thing, and then maybe becoming a thing, and it just became a thing. At first it was every other Tuesday. This quickly became every Tuesday and Thursday, which branched out to Saturdays and Sundays behind the cafeteria. Then it just started consuming their daily lives. At the end of the day Stiles would check the back of whatever paper he’d worked on in homeroom to find a handwritten number in pencil. He’d go to the designated room, close up, and wait for Derek to come.

Every time Stiles would be there, waiting quietly. Almost completely still. Sometimes he’d hum to himself, tapping his fingers against the desk or chair or wall he was sitting on or leaning against. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have the excess energy from his ADHD any more. It was just a habit born from years of doing something, anything, to satisfy the energy burning beneath his skin. But it just wasn’t there any longer and it was just something else that wasn’t in place.

Whenever Derek came in, Stiles would all-too-eagerly undo the top few buttons of his shirt and allow the man to bury his face into his clavicle. Hands would grab at his waist, keeping him in place as deep breaths played across the boy’s skin. It was a new addiction. A way to keep the lack of energy from bothering him.

Because with Derek buried in his neck he didn’t have to think about the thing in his brain.

“It just occurred to me,” Derek said one day. “I shouldn’t be able to see the Nogitsune’s aura. If it’s latched onto you -- and I doubt you’ve ever been to Japan -- then it’s got to be a rather old spirit.”

“You’re right,” Stiles agreed, hands falling down to his teacher’s shoulders. “You can see it because it’s not in control. It took a little while, but I figured out how to keep it out of my head.”

Derek’s eyebrows drew together. “Very impressive.”

“You’d do the same.”

“I don’t know if I’d be able to.”

They’re quiet for a long while until Derek returns to the boy’s neck, sucking in the smell of Stiles’ sweat like a depraved, perverted man. Both of them tried not to think too much about that. What it meant for each other. For them.

After a while, Stiles’ hands rose back into his hair, tangling in the strands and settling there. He could feel it -- the beginning of an erection threatening to take center stage in their little freak show. He thought of everything he could to deter it: flesh wounds, Scott’s dirty laundry, that one time Laura accidentally tasered him. He had quite a few unpleasant memories from just the last year alone. But then Derek adjusted his angle, stubble scraping against Stiles’ neck just so and the boy knew he only had a few more seconds of blissful distraction before the whole thing ended. And it did. Derek pulled away with a grimace, obviously having witnessed part of Stiles’ reaction first-hand.

“I kind of wish we didn’t have to sneak around,” the boy drawled before he could stop himself.

Backing against a desk and settling atop it, the teacher scoffed. “Funny.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Come on, you can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“No, I don’t entertain the thought of losing my job.”

“So you just sneak around to classrooms with a kid from your first period to sniff his neck?” He scoffed, eyes flicking momentarily to the far wall, then back to Derek. “Thanks. I feel so special.” Stiles hadn’t even been making sense any more, and really couldn’t bring himself to care.

Derek huffed, jaw straining against itself as the muscles clenched. “What are you getting at?”

The boy flinched, not expecting the sudden hostility. “Nothing, nothing. Just a little friendly banter? Sorta? I guess, not really.”

“You done?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m… I’m done.”

“Good.” Derek slid off the desk and strode out the door, leaving Stiles to his thoughts.

His stupid, traitorous thoughts.

 

**…**

Stiles was always the first to raise his hand in class. Usually, he was the only one to raise his hand in class. As such Derek couldn’t quite avoid calling on him. He’d tried goading the other students into action -- “No one but Stilinski? Again?” -- inspiring drive -- “I’ll see what I can do about your next pop quiz if you can answer this question.” -- and downright threatening -- “I will reduce your participation grade to 0% if you don’t contribute today.”

It was all a no-go. It was ridiculous.

“Can’t quite avoid me,” Stiles had so rudely pointed out after the first time Derek had tried to get someone else to say something during class. “What? Are you afraid someone will catch on? Fat chance. You glare at me for most of class. Everyone thinks that you think I’m a little shit who needs his trap wired shut.”

“You are a little shit who needs his trap wired shut.”

“See? They’re not even wrong. So stop worrying about it, okay? It’s not a big deal. We’re just sneaking around after school and you’re sniffing my neck. Just give in, okay?”

“Says the kid possessed by a Nogitsune,” Derek deadpanned, fighting back the sudden urge to nibble what piece of skin his face was currently buried in. He bet it would taste salty. Heady. Almost sweet. “Don’t they thrive on discord and death?”

“Dude, there’s a difference between letting go like Iron Man and letting go like the Joker.”

“And that difference is?”

“Well, for one, the number of casualties,” he drawled, fingers folding up to fidget with the cuff of his uniform shirt sleeve. “Then there’s the amount of alcohol involved.”

“I can’t get drunk.”

“Fine. Letting go like Captain America, then. Curling up with a good book, or whatever you do in your free time.”

“I thought we were talking about this,” Derek drawled, nudging his nose further into Stiles’ neck, earning a sharp gasp.

“Dude, I’ve told you time and time again not to do that.” His demand was ignored. Again. The boy sighed. “You know, there’s been something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Suddenly the werewolf went still, his breath freezing in his lungs as his entire body went taught. Slowly he moved away from Stiles.

“Do you-”

“Shh,” Derek insisted, planting his hand over his student’s mouth.

Stiles almost licked the man’s palm, but went still as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the room. He glanced over the the clock and nearly moaned. It was six in the afternoon.  What was anyone doing in the math wing? Whoever it was, they passed by quickly, though Derek didn’t remove his hand until much later.

Stiles had grinned, glancing down at his shoes with his mouth half-open for a laugh. It sounds nervous, scared, and all sorts of things he had every and no right to be. “That was… yeah.”

“So what did you have to tell me?”

“What -- oh!” Stiles gasped, eyes flying open and head twisting just enough to count as a reaction. Even if it was ridiculous. “Right. I’m moving back to Beacon Hills at the end of the year. I’m not staying in New York.”

Derek signed, hand twitching at his side. He wanted to grab the boy. Wanted to pull him close and pepper him with kisses and generally do things he shouldn’t want to do. Had no place doing. “It’s not going to be the same without you,” he admitted instead. “It’ll be a lot quieter.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you sure you want to go back?”

Scuffing his shoes against the floor a few times, Stiles looked up, blinking rapidly against the sudden moisture in his eyes. “Of course I want to go back. Why wouldn’t I? All my friends are there -- my dad’s there -- and I can’t…” His voice cut out, but he fought through the sudden lump in his throat to confess, “I can’t keep brushing them off like this. They need me, and I don’t think I ever realized how much until I left. I doubt they even knew.

“I can’t keep pretending the supernatural doesn’t exist. I’ve been too ingrained in it for too long, and I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.” He was the calmest Derek had ever seen him; hands relaxed and shoulders slumped. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced, too. “The only reason I’m even remotely hesitating is because of you.”

Derek frowned.

“God, not like that!” Stiles amended at the look.

It was too late.

His heart had stuttered.

Derek turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Don’t -- god, don’t walk away from me.”

The man sighed. “So what? Are you asking me to go back to Beacon Hills?”

Stiles seemed surprised by the suggestion. “What? No way, man. Not even close. I get why you left, and I respect that.” He paused, licking his bottom lip nervously. “But while we’re on the topic, I’d just like to say that I know for a fact that you miss your family just as much as I miss mine. You could definitely be happy there.” Again he paused, this time flushing red. “And we could, uh, hang out. Without hiding.”

Settling against a desk, Derek bit back a wave of anger as Stiles continued.

“You could have a pack again -- I know how much that means to you. And yes, I’m making a lot of assumptions considering we only met like five months ago, but I think you’d get along well with everyone. I’m not just saying this because I’d like to get a chance to know you. And I know you’d like that, too, because the only time you don’t look like you’re two seconds away from jumping into the Hudson is when we’re hiding out in the room of the day with your face buried in my neck.”

Derek flinched.

“So do me a favor after I leave, okay?” the boy pleaded, finally winding to a close. “Think about it.” Fixing the man with a weak grin, Stiles turned to the door and left.

The sound of his footsteps echoed in Derek’s ears long after he left. It still felt like he had all the time in the world to stop this from happening, even though nothing was really going on. It felt like reality was trying to sink in, and everything in the world had slowed to a crawl around him as he kept his attention of the sound of Stiles’ retreating feet. He smiled when they caught on themselves on the way out of the wing, closing the door with a single, innocuous sound that struck him in the chest and forcefully ripped the air from his lungs.

 _Click_.

 

**...**

They didn’t meet for a while after that. And by the time they did, it was the day before graduation.

It was muggy and hot; the air conditioners had broken down and the summer air had invaded the school like a virus. The heat of Stiles skin seeped through his shirt, nearly roasting Derek’s hands through the thin fabric. Almost immediately the boy’s hands tangled in the werewolf’s hair, scent turning sharp with lust faster than it ever had. The man then found he no longer cared. He drank in the boy’s scent, stooping a bit at the knees so he wouldn’t throw his neck out at the angle. Stiles seemed to have grown an inch or two since they first started doing this, and stood almost even with Derek.

After a few minutes of this, the boy’s hands tugged at his hair, trying to pull him away, and that felt far too good to be legal.

Which is wasn’t.

“Derek, come on, you can smell -- stop, okay? That’s enough.” His voice was coming up short.

The protests were mostly ignored, but acknowledged by a small nip to his neck.

Stiles tugged insistently at his hair at this, knees going weak. “You really, really shouldn’t do that. And that’s, like, so far out of safe boundaries. Oh my god -- we’re officially doing things we shouldn’t be doing because your mouth is on my neck-”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek drawled, pulled back with a grimace. He wasn’t happy to see the look on the boy’s face at the moment, trapped somewhere between lust and aggravation.

“Am I dreaming?” he asked suddenly, blinking rapidly.

Derek’s eyebrows drew together as he took in the boy’s posture. How he was poised to run, hands shaking as he started to count his fingers slowly; carefully. “Why would you ask that?”

“I’ve been dreaming a lot lately,” Stiles tells him quietly. “I have -- my time’s almost up.”

“Time?”

“The school year. The school year’s almost up.”

Derek scoffed.

“I’ve been here for almost six months,” Stiles commented, drawing the man’s attention to himself as his hands pressed flush against the wall as he sagged against it. “Time’s almost up.”

“Are you ready to move back to Beacon Hills?” Derek asked, taking a step back. Halfway through the movement he was interrupted by hands shooting out and grabbing at his hair, dragging him forward roughly. His hands fell to the first thing they found -- Stiles’ waist -- and rest there like they had while he was scenting the boy as he was dragged into a sloppy, enthusiastic kiss that made him feel so empty he didn’t know what to do with himself.

When Derek jerked away, the teen just laughed.

“I figured since we’re sneaking around we might as well do something worth sneaking around for,” he drawled darkly.

The man’s eyes widened at the skip in the boy’s heartbeat.

Stiles was lying.

And he knew Derek could tell.

Snatching his hands away from Stiles’ waist, the man took a few hasty steps backward. He pretended not to notice when he plowed into a desk, nearly falling over. “I’m gonna go.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” the boy called after him darkly as he left.

Once alone in the room, Stiles heaved a sigh and slid to the ground. Burying his face in his hands, he heaved a groan. He smacked his face with open palms. “Idiot,” he scolded, dragging nervous fingers through his bangs and tugging them harshly. “You’re such an idiot.”

Out in the hallway, Derek couldn’t tell which of them Stiles was accusing.


	3. A Nerve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that took so long, guys. But it's finished, and I'm posting it, and that's all that matters. I hope you guys enjoyed Exposed Like a Nerve!

There was a boy in seat 36, and Derek had to physically stop himself every time he went to double take.

The seat number wasn’t called “36” because of the number of students or chairs in the room. No self-respecting private school would have thirty-six kids in one room. No -- it was called that because of its placement in relation to the other desks. Row three, desk six. So, really, it was seat 3-6; near the back of the room, beside the cabinets. And despite the man’s seemingly iron will, Derek’s eyes were drawn to this seat no matter what he was doing.

It wasn’t Stiles. He already knew it wasn’t Stiles. He needed to stop looking.

The new school year had started up despite Derek’s reservations. Though it hadn’t been in a traditional manner, the man had still “taken advantage” of one of his students the previous year. And although the situation was a very, very special case, it didn’t prevent him from thinking that he should be sacked. Repeatedly. With a blunt object. Or just thrown in the Hudson.

To make it worse, the werewolf always expected to see Stiles around the next corner, or in his office after detention. This wasn’t the healthiest thing. It was the opposite of healthy, but Derek couldn’t stop thinking that. He knew it was bad, but every night after school he would dwell on how stupid he had been to think Stiles would be coming back for senior year, full ride or not. A possessed teenager can’t live too long in New York without any contacts. It would simply be a recipe for disaster, and that was what it added up to in the end.

Derek figured he was even stupider for thinking he could be that contact.

He went an entire year without caving; without going to the office and asking for the transcripts of one “Genim Stilinski.”

...

“So you’re coming back home?”

Laura’s voice was a comfort Derek hadn’t afforded himself in years, and it brought a long overdue smile to his face. She wasn’t just his sister; she was his Alpha. Or she had been once. She was the person who made his very existence easier. She was pack.

“Yeah, for summer vacation,” he admitted, glancing out his office window to see if anyone was still in the attached classroom. Picking up on heartbeats or footsteps was difficult on the phone. “Some of it, anyway. I’ve still got to create the syllabus for next year.”

“Can’t you do that here?”

“I’d rather do it without fifty other people in the house.”

On the other end of the line, the woman sighed. “The pack isn’t that big,” she drawled. Derek could practically see her grin; feel the gust of air as she tossed her hair over her shoulder and laughed.

...

The storage garage Derek stored the Camaro in what seemed like years before was just as he left it, though the other cars had changed. He plugged in the code for entry, watching with mild amusement as the garage door stuttered gradually upwards just as it had when he’d first parked there. He’d almost forgotten about it; the little retarded door that almost could, which stalled and froze six inches lower than the sign proclaiming its clearance insisted it should.

He ducked under the door and made his way into the garage, trying not to laugh too hard at the sight of too many low-riding cars than should be legal.

Derek couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken the Camaro out for a drive. There was no need for a car in New York. Not really. It had a heavy layer of dust over the hood, and even the seats looked grimy. In the end it took six hours with a rag to get the interior to smell like anything other than stale leather. In the end he wasn’t sure which he preferred: moldy animal skin or wet dirt.

…

Halfway to California -- a good day and a half into driving and in a moment he liked to call “clarity” -- Derek took an exit, turned around, and went back to New York.

He tried to ignore the part where it felt like his insides were made of glass, smashing together every time he hit a bump in the road, dragging just a little bit with every acceleration, and weighing his entire chest down. At one point he was convinced they would fall out of him and crash to the floor. But they didn’t, and he arrived in New York in the same condition that he left it.

…

“Derek, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Something came up, and I won’t be able to come home.”

“It’s just the beginning of summer. I’m sure you can make it some time in the next three months,” Laura insisted.

The teacher pursed his lips. He didn’t want to tell her that he was scared of running into Stiles while he was there; running into a student that smelled like him and that drove him crazy. Fear gripped him at the thought that he might do something. Something like talk to him, properly. Something like kissing him, properly. Something like falling for him, properly. But even worse than all of this, Derek was scared of going back and not seeing Stiles at all. Not being able to find him. Not being able to see him. Not being able to touch him.

What would be the point of being close?

Laura sighed. “Kate’s dead, Derek. You don’t have to worry about her.”

The man remained quiet, allowing his sister to assume.

…

The second year without Stiles started a bit easier. He’d finally learned to just not look at seat 36. Whoever was there seemed to be grateful, seeing as the one time Derek bothered to look the kid was asleep. He did the same with the next student that sat there, and the next, and the next. Eventually the kids in his class started calling it “Mr. Hale’s Blind Spot.”

Personally, Derek would rather call it his “Exposed Nerve.”

…

His favorite white dress shirt still smelled like Stiles. Derek hadn’t worn it since the boy had kissed him. Hadn’t washed it. Didn’t want to. True to form, Derek also refused to admit this even to himself. He also refused to acknowledge the fact that there was a reason he’d stuffed it in the drawer in his bedside table -- close enough to smell it when he fell asleep, but not so close that it might lose its scent.

One night, in a fit of anger, he’d thrown it in the trash and gone to sleep.

Except he couldn’t.

Thankfully the trash had been empty, aside from some bits of plastic, and Stiles’ scent remained in tact.

…

By the third year without Stiles, seat 36 was a myth. A legend. An eighth wonder among seventh wonders and frankly not Derek’s problem any more. He’d requested a room change and gotten it. End of story.

Or not.

“Derek, if you don’t come home this year I’m going to track you down myself and drag you back by your neck.”

“I can’t afford to drive to California,” he tells her, collapsing over the side of his couch. “It’s about $400 one way just for gas.”

“Don’t give me that. You’re making, what, 40k a year?”

“It’s New York, Laura. 40k a year isn’t much compared to the cost of living.”

“You little -- I know that hoity-toity school you teach at provides housing. $400 is nothing.”

Frustrated, Derek snapped, “I’m not spending $800 and driving for six days just to see people I don’t know.”

“The only reason you don’t know them is because you refuse to come back,” she spat in reply. “I’m getting you a train ticket. You’re staying next month.”

“Laura-”

“Don’t make me turn this into an order from an Alpha, because I will if I have to. You’re visiting next month and that’s the end of it. I’ll call you when I’ve got your itinerary.”

…

The train ride was long, boring, and the only upside was that the car didn’t smell too much of sweat and urine.

…

“This is Erica, Boyd, and Isaac,” Laura told him when he arrived, pointing to the three twenty-somethings lined up in the living room. She hadn’t bothered with a hug or a “how was New York?” when he walked through the door. Not a “it’s been years.” No greeting; no nothing.

Derek figured he shouldn’t expect much more than that. He did take off.

Each of the wolves introduced themselves, sniffing around Derek like he was some kind of rarity.

Erica had fixed him with a grin. “You don’t smell like an Omega. You’ve got this, like, underlying scent. Who’ve you got on the side?”

Derek flinched as his sister laughed. “I’ve been wondering that too, actually. Who’ve you got holed up with you in New York? A friend? Doesn’t smell human. Not entirely. And it smells...” She paused, frowning openly. “It smells faded. Were you living with someone?”

“I live in a dorm,” the man supplied, listening carefully to his own heartbeat as he said it. Not a stutter. They can smell Stiles, he realized. It hadn’t occurred to him that after three years of being in a drawer the boy’s scent might have begun to ingrain itself in his own.

“There are still a few more members of the pack for you to meet,” Laura told him with a grin, thankfully changing the subject. “They’re at work right now. Most of them, anyway. So how about we all go for a run, and then watch a movie?”

Erica and Boyd groaned as Isaac announced, “My choice tonight, right?”

No one answered, but Derek guessed this was a bad thing.

…

The run was nice, and when they arrived back at the house for the movie they were greeted by four more twenty-somethings who didn’t look very happy.

“You’re late,” one of them hissed.

“Manners,” Laura snapped.

The newcomers, she would go on to introduce, were Jackson, Scott, and their girlfriends Lydia and Allison. In the space of ten minutes Derek would go on to learn about the incredibly dysfunctional pack his sister had managed to compile. While Isaac, Boyd, and Erica had been pretty standard recruits -- with backgrounds of abuse, social exclusion, and health issues -- these were a bit more out there. First off, the human -- Allison -- was a wolf-friendly hunter who actually followed the code. Lydia was a banshee with the self-confidence of a Goddess. The actual werewolves weren’t as strange.

Scott was a True Alpha who chose to work with Laura. It was a strange set-up. Usually two alphas spells trouble, even in different packs. And while Derek had heard about a pack of alphas at one point, to see a regular pack working with two was just strange. (Scott also smelled very familiar, though Derek couldn’t quite place it.) Finally, there was Jackson.

Jackson was a dick.

After everyone had split up to do odd activities -- from a round of Foosball to video games in the living room -- Laura cornered Derek on the couch with a bottle of Mexican soda and a wry grin. “We’ve also got a new guy. well, I say new. He’s been with the pack for about five years; in the pack for two. He’s having control issues; hasn’t even found an anchor yet. You can find him in the library.”

Derek frowned, glancing at the woman’s soda suspiciously. “You’re allowing a werewolf with control issues and no anchor in a public service hub?”

“He’s a special case.”

“And what -- I’m just supposed to find him on my own?”

Flicking off the metal cap with her fingernail, she caught it in her free hand before taking a cautious sip with a grin. “It’s not like it’ll be hard. He smells like pack. It’s weak, but he does.”

“No one’s coming with me to, I don’t know, introduce us?”

“He has issues talking to more than one person at once. If we overwhelm him he could slip.”

“Again, why are you allowing him in a public service hub?”

“Because it’s the quietest place in town,” she insists, running a hand through her hair. “Computer screens have been messing with his eyes, and he doesn’t have enough books at home to keep him occupied.”

“Why don’t you just have someone ferry him books from the library?”

She shook her head. “You’ll get it when you meet him.” Taking another leisurely sip from her soda, Laura fixed her eyes on where Scott and Boyd were fighting over whose turn it was on the controller, smiling softly.

…

The library was twice the size it had been when Derek left Beacon Hills. From what he could tell there were three new wings dedicated to Fiction, Non-fiction, and a lounge. It seemed almost like a completely different place. When he'd walked in Derek almost couldn't believe his eyes. He hadn't expected Café in a library, let alone an entire wing dedicated to one. But there it was, bustling silent customers ferrying their books back and forth between tables and shelves.

At first, he'd almost gone down through this wing. It was on the realization that a werewolf with control issues wouldn't be in the largest section of the library that stopped him. So instead he turned to the fiction section, attempting to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible as he made his way down the hall toward the shelves.

After ten minutes with no luck Derek gave up. Under his breath he whispered, "Laura sent me," and listened carefully. He picked through the words that filled the space, ignoring idle conversations and project chatter. Down the hall someone was talking about a science project -- something about nuclear fission. In the Café two girls were talking about nail polish in the different properties of chip free varnish. A young boy was complaining to his mother about the story he had wanted to check out. Unsurprisingly, there was no reply.

He'll smell like pack, Laura had said.

With nothing else to do, Derek took a deep breath. He attempted to categorize the smells, nearly overbearing in their depth. Books, dust, perfume -- so many smells, so many people passing through. And yet there was no scent of pack. Deciding to backtrack, Derek made his way out of the fiction section.

The nonfiction wing seemed a bit more promising. It was quieter than the other two sections, and seemed a good place for an unfocused werewolf. These books were a bit older, and smelled less of people; more like time. Entire shelves reeked of misuse, pages freely decomposing without the aid of human hands. But there was a scent beneath the dust and decaying books. Something familiar; something similar to pack. But it was faint.

Derek made his way down the rows, I scanning the shelves as he went, looking for books out of place. Looking for someone. Anyone.

Why had Laura sent him alone? Someone should have come with him to tell them who this person was. Where he could find them. In that section of the library there were no strong smells, only one even scent layered over the entire wing. It was as if single person had spent so much time there that the very library had ingrained itself into their skin.

Stepping out into a common area, Derek's eyes settled on a small, hunched figure out one of the tables. He didn't know what he had expected, but it wasn't this. Stiles sat among a pile of books, drowning in a large red hoodie with his fingers tapping along to an invisible beat. For a moment Derek thought he was loosely drumming along with music playing through his headphones, but upon listening closely he found that they were silent.

Did you look to the young man curiously, taking in the hoodie, headphones, and the general lack of movement. Stiles didn't even seem to realize he was there. But when Derek took a step forward the young man looked up with a cautious expression. Big hands came up to push down the hoodie, then fiddled with the headphones which were dropped around his neck. Finally, much to Derek's surprise, nimble fingers dug out a pair of earplugs, which were dropped to the table.

"Derek," Stiles muttered, not quite believing what he was saying. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Yeah," the older man muttered back. He should've known it would be Stiles. Stiles had always smelled like pack; a scent that can't get picked up just anywhere."How have you been?" He asked, though he wasn't quite sure if he wanted the answer.

Stiles chuckled darkly. "I've been okay, I guess." His fingers began to tap nervously against the book once more. "I mean, it’s not like I'm dead or anything. Just… Rolling with the punches."

Derek nodded quietly, biting his lip before noting, “You smell different.”

“Yeah, well, so do you.”

It doesn’t escape Derek’s notice that Stiles looked more awake than he’d ever seen him. How the bags under his eyes were gone and he had an alert sort of swing in his step. There was even a healthy flush to his cheeks, his fingers drawing attention to it by occasionally reaching up to scratch behind one of the many moles that dotted the patch skin by his left ear. His hands flitted everywhere, tapping tables and playing with the edges of pages. All the older man could remember about the boy he’d met at the school was gray-toned skin, thin lips, a soft, subdued sort of energy that wanted so much to be vibrant, and the intoxicating scent that overwhelmed his senses.

This, Derek realized with a start, is what Stiles was like before he was possessed.

Stiles took this time to observe Derek almost obsessively, appreciating him with enhanced vision for the first time. While he could he tried to memorize the pattern of the man’s facial hair; which direction each little nub went in and which ones overlapped. He greedily took in the way his former teacher’s torso was hugged by a black Henley, and how his jeans were just a touch too tight.

“So why the library?”

Stiles grinned, turning his eyes away from the man’s body to fix him with a soft smile. “It’s quiet. There’s not much to get angry at.”

“And the pile of books on insects?” Derek asked, waving a hand at the stack to the youth’s left.

“If I read Harry Potter I might actually kill someone in a fit of rage.”

The man scoffed. “Very funny.”

“You know what, Derek? Not actually kidding. I tried to read Catcher in the Rye and just about decapitated Scott. Everyone thought it would be best if I didn’t pick up any fiction for a while. I’m not stable. Far from it. Not only do I have a Nogitsune inside me, but I have all the urges of a werewolf. It’s been two years, and you know what I’ve learned? I need quiet. I need stability. I need a place without distractions. But above all that what I really need is an anchor.”

The man suddenly felt sheepish. “Have you figured out what that is yet?”

“Depends. How long will you be in town.”

Derek is shocked by the confession. He looks at Stiles awkwardly, then turns his eyes down to the ground. “Only ‘til the end of month; then I’m going back to Brooklyn.”

They fell into silence after this, and the younger man settled into his previous seat with a vague invitation for Derek to sit as well. Each of them picked a book from a pile and began to read, an unspoken agreement passing between them to simply enjoy the silence.

Derek’s phone rang about an hour later.

“Hey, you ever coming home?” Laura asked over the line. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a bit.”

“See you when I see you.” They hung up, and Derek rose from his seat with a sigh, only to find a hand pressing a piece of paper into his. He glanced down at it, confused.

Stiles turned red. “It’s, uh, it’s my number. You could give me a call some time. Like while you’re in town, or when you get back to Brooklyn, or if you get bored on the train. Or, uh, any time, really. We could text?” The last bit sounded almost desperate.

Derek nodded, eyes trained on the slip of paper in his hands. He played with the edges a bit, suddenly nervous. “Yeah,” he said quietly. His eyes rose to the young man in front of him. “I’ll do that.”

Stiles deflated. A light grin touched his lips and he let out the breath that had been trapped in his chest for far too long. “Awesome. Great. Fantastic. That’s, uh, cool. I’ll talk to you later, then?”

Despite himself, the man smiled. Then, without bothering to think about it, he stepped around the table and pressed a soft kiss to the younger man’s lips, delighting in the surprised keen that drew out of the seated man. He drew back with a soft breath. “Later.”

Stiles watched the man go, utterly confused and fighting for control. After Derek had left, the doors of the library entrance slamming shut behind him in the distance, Stiles bit his lip and grinned. “Yeah. Later.” Snatching up his things, he stuffed the ear plugs back in his ears, settled the headphones over them, and drew up the hood of his hoodie. The world faded away around him, leaving him with his book.

If that was how “later” went he wouldn’t mind waiting a bit longer.

The End

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://besieged-infection.tumblr.com).


End file.
